


Kafka Was The Rage

by DonnesCafe



Series: Eccentric Geniuses [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, First Kiss, Group Therapy, John's slow but he gets there in the end, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Rehab, bits of philosophy, kafka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-22
Updated: 2016-10-22
Packaged: 2018-08-24 01:24:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8350822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: Sherlock's back from a stint in rehab post-TAB. John figures out something. Finally.





	

“So what was the looney bin like?” 

“Rehab, John. I wasn’t sectioned.” John stood in the doorway of 221B, liminal, hestitant. When Sherlock heard his unmistakable steps on the stairs leading to the flat, his heart had lifted. His traitorous heart. Now it sank again. He shrank back a little into his chair and closed the book he was reading. John lingered on the threshold as if he no longer belonged here, and his words cut like knives. 

John still hesitated in the doorway. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. John’s shirt had been folded, creases still apparent. Still cycling to work or something else… Bags under his eyes. Roll of the shoulder, tension or? Ah. Interesting. Out drinking with Lestrade last night. Didn’t go home to Mary. 

“Really, John,” Sherlock said, lifting his chin and straightening his spine. “I’m surprised a doctor would use the phrase ‘looney bin.’ Where’s your professional compassion?” 

“Bit strained at the moment,” John replied, finally coming into the room. He approached Sherlock’s chair and loomed over it. “Well, how was the exclusive, private facility for the well-connected addicts on suicide watch then?” 

Sherlock took a breath, trying to keep his temper well under control. He unfolded himself from his chair, and pressed himself into John’s personal space. “I wasn’t on suicide watch, as you should well know.” 

“You tried to kill yourself, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock was tired. Tired of judgment, tired of lies, tired of so many things. Death is a release from desires that make us their puppets. Marcus Aurelius said that, although he was sure John would not appreciate quotations from the Stoics at this moment. 

“Very astute, John,” Sherlock said instead. “I preferred to have control over my own end rather than facing a messy and likely quite painful death in Eastern Europe. It was a pragmatic decision. Tea?” 

John laughed. It was a bitter sound. He ran a hand through his greying hair. 

“What do you want, John? Some repentance for my drug use? A mea culpa that I had the temerity to choose a somewhat less painful death than Mycroft had allowed for me? You won’t get it.” He was tired of walking on eggshells around John Watson. 

“I’m making tea. Stay if you like.” He turned, went into the kitchen, and filled the kettle. He heard John shuffling in behind him. He didn’t turn. 

“So how was rehab then?” John's voice was careful, chastened. 

“Deadly dull but effective. Kafka was all the rage. I couldn’t wait to get out of there.” 

“Kafka? What…?” 

“Franz Kafka,” said Sherlock, getting down two mugs from a shelf. “Austro-Hungarian Jewish writer. Surely even your appalling education touched on Kafka.” He flung two teabags into the mugs. 

“Yeah. Guy turns into a bug. That one?” Sherlock heard a kitchen chair scraped back. John settling into it. 

“Precisely. Since Mycroft chose the rehab facility, it was bound to be crammed with pretentious gits full of existential anxiety and expensive educations. My therapy group became obsessed with discussing their transformation into verminous creatures controlled by their addictions. Tedious. Putting it in Kafkaesque terms seemed to comfort them with their lack of responsibility. I much preferred my last rehab center in the East End. A bit rough and ready, and a bit too much talk about Higher Powers, but there was a refreshing lack of pretense. I went back to that group, actually, this week. Asked them to take me back. They said yes.” 

Sherlock put the mugs down on the table none too gently and shoved the sugar toward John. He sat down and fixed John with a steady gaze. 

“Group therapy in the East End is refreshing. ‘I use because my husband beats me.' 'I take morphine because my son was killed by a drug gang.' 'I’m a coke-head because I cannot bear my miserable life.' That sort of thing.” 

John looked at him skeptically. “And what did you tell them at group in the East End, then?” 

Sherlock stirred sugar into his tea, looking down into the slow swirl. He smiled. 

“Actually, I talked about Kafka. Ironic, I know.” 

“You have got to be shitting me. I thought you liked them because they were real, because they were honest.” 

“I was being honest, John.” He looked up. “Kafka wrote a much more interesting story than the one about the bug. It’s called _A Hunger Artist._ Hunger artists were people who starved themselves to astonish and amuse paying audiences. Side-show freaks. In Kafka’s story, the hunger artist sacrifices everything for his audience. They don’t even notice.” 

John's hands clenched tightly around the mug, knuckles white. “He did, did he? And how did this go over with the addicts in the East End?” 

“They understood. Of course they did. We’re all starving, John. That’s why we take drugs, in the end. We’re all starving for something we can’t have. The drugs make it a bit more bearable, that's all.” 

“Jesus, Sherlock.” 

Sherlock's eyes fell back to his tea. He was so tired of lying. 

“And what…?” John cleared his throat. “Sherlock, what happened to the hunger artist?” 

Sherlock shrugged. “He died, John. Obviously.” 

John looked down at his hands. They were shaking. He clasped them together. Then he slowly got up and knelt in front of Sherlock’s chair. He drew Sherlock’s head down. Slowly, softly, he ran a hand through Sherlock’s dark hair. “What is it you want that you can’t have?” 

“You,” Sherlock said simply. 

“Yes,” John said. Then his lips brushed gently, gently, just at the side of Sherlock’s mouth. 

Sherlock stiffened. Pulled back. “Yes, what?” 

“Yes, you can have me.” 

“What about…?” 

John covered Sherlock’s mouth with two fingers. “Shh. Doesn’t matter. You just had to ask, you _utter_ pillock. You never fucking _asked_.” 

Wild hope clawed its way from somewhere around the region of Sherlock’s sternum, round about where Mary shot him. It was struggling to make its way out of his mouth. There. 

“I love you, John.” 

“Yeah, just realized that.” 

“You’re been very slow,” Sherlock said. 

“Don’t know what you see in me, really, with you so brilliant and all.” John grinned. 

Sherlock framed John’s face with his long-fingered hands. 

“Are you sure?” His voice was rough, fierce. He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t bear it now if John wasn’t sure. 

“I’ve always been sure,” John said, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> Title and inspiration from David Bowie's list of 100 favorite books: #5 Anatole Broyard's _Kafka Was the Rage_.


End file.
